


through all the sounds (that we’re laying on the ground)

by flustraaa



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Criminal Minds RPF
Genre: Aaron Hotchner is a good friend, Dad! Aaron hotchner, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Spencer Reid, Injured Spencer Reid, Protective Aaron Hotchner, Sad Spencer Reid, Sassy Spencer Reid, Sleepy Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid Angst, Spencer Reid Fluff, Spencer Reid Whump, Spencer Reid has depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:40:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24767890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flustraaa/pseuds/flustraaa
Summary: “as long as i’m here, you’re in danger of suddenly deciding you’re not happy with you life,” Spencer mumbles, plopping into his chair— running a shaking hand through his hair.“kid,” morgan whispers, “you have to know that the weight of the world isn’t always on your shoulders. people make their own mistakes— one’s that aren’t a byproduct of your own decisions.”
Relationships: Spencer Reid & Aaron Hotchner, Spencer Reid & Alex Blake, Spencer Reid & David Rossi, Spencer Reid & Derek Morgan, Spencer Reid & Jason Gideon, Spencer Reid & Jennifer “JJ” Jareau, Spencer Reid & Maeve Donovan, Spencer Reid & Penelope Garcia, Spencer Reid & William Reid, Spencer Reid/Maeve Donovan
Comments: 5
Kudos: 290





	through all the sounds (that we’re laying on the ground)

**Author's Note:**

> hehe get it the title is a line from a wallows song

There’s something about the empty feeling that accompanies a recent loss— and though he knows that Blake is still out there, that Gideon is still out there, that his dad is still out there; it’ll always cause a burning ache somewhere the the deepest depths of his stomach.

Maeve didn’t have a _choice_. She never got a chance to decide that he wasn’t a reason worth staying.

And maybe that’s why the ache mended over time— and once it mended, it left little residue. No sticky substance, no smudge of ink on the side of his hands, no ‘ _it’s not your fault, I had to leave— for me’._

She didn’t have a choice, and she reassured him until her last breath that she would always be apart of him. That she loved him.

There was no— _no_ silent, slightly pointed motion that was meant to be caught by a profiler’s eyes. Just pure, unadulterated love and admiration.

Kind of what it felt like when Reid woke up in a hospital room to Blake holding his hand and smiling at him.

_“There he is,” she had said, her voice uncharacteristically soft— and some part of him recognised that she had probably seen a bit of the man that she had called out to when he was dying, “how are you feeling?”_

He allows himself to wallow in these thoughts. It’s long before he fully realised where his legs are carrying him that he standing in front of an all too familiar spot in the book case, fingers wrapping around his copy of _The Narrative of John Smith._

Spencer’s teeth sink harshly into his bottom lip, book clutched in one hand and Blake’s badge in the other. He drags himself to the bedroom, toeing out of his shoes on the way.

Once he’s sitting in his bed, still completely clothed, he stares at the badge in his hand, running a thumb over the bold letters stamped in the bottom right corner.

_This is what Alex needs,_ he reminds himself, for herself, for her relationship, _for her sanity_.

And he’s not quite sure why he won’t let himself accept it;

or maybe, he just doesn’t _want_ to recognise that he just wants someone to see him and understand that he’s sick of being so tough all the time. That he wants to stop feeling like everything is falling apart and that it’s _his_ fault.

He knows he needs rest, he can still feel Blake and JJ walking him to the jet. He can feel the bone weary exhaustion that had flooded his body, and still runs rampant through his limbs, aching like nothing else.

But there’s also part of him that worries he won’t be able to sleep. He’s never been too good at it, it seems like it takes a bullet to the neck to put him out— irony intended.

He doesn’t bother getting out of his khakis and tie, simply slipping under his sheets, setting the pieces that seem more and more like ancient relics with every second that passes ( _it’s been one thousand, eight hundred, and sixteen seconds since Alex left his apartment_ ).Once he’s prone, and not in danger of sleeping on his injured side, he flips of the lights, staring at the way the moonlight illuminates them.

It’s as _ethereal_ as it is _painful_ , and no matter how hard he tries he can’t seem to rid himself of his aches and pains— whether it be the ever present ones in his neck, where a bullet had torn through tissue; 

or the one where actions had pierced his heart like the those who had hurt him in more way than one.

He wakes up the next morning both surprised and unsurprised. Surprised that he’d fallen asleep in the first place, but unsurprised that he’d woken up at the same time his alarm would normally wake him up for work.

His throat is dry and his lips are chapped, and he wonders if he’d been talking ( _screaming_?) in his sleep or simply breathing deeply, dead to the world.

He settles on the latter of the two, letting out a sigh as he rolls onto his back, letting his eyes drift shut as he lets the experiences of the night before wash over him.

_Nope,_ he thinks distantly, _it still hurts._

He can’t allow himself to wallow right now. He needs to force himself up and take care of his injury and honestly just take a shower.

He strips, sorting his clothes into their respective baskets and entering the bathroom. He flips on the shower, circling the faucet three full rotations before it feels quite right. He slips in as the water heats up, minding his stitches as he washes the grease and hospital out of his hair.

_It feels nice_ , he ponders, closing his eyes as he settles his fingers on his shoulders, letting the hot water burn a trail down his back. He remembers a conversation with JJ and Penelope once, about how they often sit on the shower floor when they’re sad— let their hair hang in their face and weep.

He pockets the thought, deciding to save it for when he’s fully reached rock bottom.

He methodically runs a dollop of soap all over himself, watching as the bubbles roll into the drain in a roar of white fizz.

He thinks about Hotch’s soft reassurance that he doesn’t have to come back to work until he’s fully healed, but he knows if he doesn’t write this report and turn it in—

His brain swiftly interjects, _you mean, if you don’t distract yourself?_

— his initial line of thought carries on, if he doesn’t busy himself with that reports, he may just lose his mind.

He steps out of the shower, cold air attacking him as he pulls his towel to his face, dabbing around before wrapping it around his body. He goes through the motions, letting his hair air dry as he flips into a simple pair of khakis and a button up, throwing his CalTech sweater over top. 

He slips into a pair of shoes and grabs a coffee on the way to work.

He knows he’s just sticking out like a sore thumb, neck that’s splotching with bruises all the way around, wrapped with a fresh adhesive plaster.

Penelope sees him and she raises a finger, mouth gaping, “Boy Wonder! Go _home_!”

“Garcia, I have to write my report before I forget,” He mutters, striding past at the other catch a glimpse of him.

“Kid, you have an eidetic memory, go get some sleep,” Morgan sighs, watching as Reid plops down in his desk, pulling the blank case report from his satchel with ease.

“ _Can’t_ ,” Reid states as if it were the clearest thing in the world, taking a long sip of his coffee. “Just drank a whole coffee.”

and then something odd happens.

Penelope runs a hand through his hair, and he snaps away a hand flying to his neck at the movement, “Garcia, what are you doing?”

“Making a point, present your head, Boy Wonder,” She makes grabby hands and he sighs, placing his head back in its original spot.

“I don’t like being touched,” He mumbles, sending her a pointed look.

“That’s a lie, you’re touch starved,” She mutters and a frown finds its way onto Reid’s features, “you love being platonically touched, but only by the super seven.”

Reid rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue— and despite it being common knowledge, they find themselves surprised (if not a little bemused).

“Garcia, why are you—“

“Because,” she drawls, as if saying ‘ _stop asking stupid questions_ ’, “I’m making a point.”

He waits a few long moments, allowing his eyes to drift shut. Not long after they do, she ruffles his hair, her touch disappearing and he peaks open his eyes, finding that he’s a lot groggier than he was when he woke up this morning.

“You started falling asleep, Boy Wonder,” She murmurs, voice holding an off note of sadness. “You need rest. _Desperately_.”

He huffs, shuffling his hair around, “I promise, I will. I just need to get this done, for my own sanity.”

She seems to accept that answer, setting a pastry from the box behind her in front of him, “ _Fine_. But you at least have to eat something. Can’t have you withering away.”

He makes direct eye contact with her as he takes a bite out of the doughnut, and she just grins at him. 

Especially with Hotch and Garcia on their side, the team manages to convince Reid that he deserves at least three days off.

He’s utterly _mortified_.

It only takes him ten minutes alone with his Thai takeout and Russian film to realise that he, when left alone with his thoughts is completely and utterly fucked.

He sighs, shoving another bite of Red Curry into his mouth, before resting his back against true couch. He stares at the ceiling for a long time that night, just thinking about anything— _everything_.

He thinks about how the men in his life have left him with letters, and the women in his life have left him with pieces of their identity. He almost can’t help but tie it to suicide.

Men like to make a show of their deaths, violent ends and means, but women like to be careful and concise— limit the mess for those who find them.

Gideon and his father simply left a letter, one that left him more wrecked than he knew he could possibly be.

Alex left him with a badge, and integral part of her— one that she’d been rebuilding for a decade before returning to a place that she wanted to be.

Maeve left him with a quote, though her departure was anything but clean. It was messy, and from what Spencer is told, so is _love_.

It makes sense to him somehow, like anything he’s ever had to analyse, it just clicks.

What doesn’t, is why the only commonality between these four people leaving, is _him_.

It leaves him wondering if maybe he’d never been there, maybe they’d never have left. 

_Spoiler_ , he doesn’t make it three days alone with his thoughts. This time he’s dressed in a simple emerald green long sleeve, a pair of khakis covering his lanky legs. The outfit screams, ‘ _I’m not here to work I just don’t know what else to do with myself‘._

“ _Jesus_ ,” He heads to his left, and when he turns he’s met with Morgan’s eyes giving him a once over, “You look worse than you did in that ambulance.”

“Thank you, Morgan,” Reid says dryly, blinking at his friend’s outburst, “Now we know my dreams of becoming a model are to the _wayside_.”

“Never say never, Kid. Vogue loves the tall, sleepless, and emaciated vibe,” Morgan whistles, knowing better than to pull to hard at the kids walls.

“Maybe if the FBI thing falls through,” Reid blurts, turning on his heels.

He grips his coffee in his right hand, Alex’s badge burning a hole against the fabric of his pants. He doesn’t bothering knocking on Hotch’s door, simply opening it and slipping the badge onto the desk with a sight.

“She _left_ ,” Reid states simply. “She gave me that the day we got back.”

“It’s not your fault,” Hotch’s eyes meet his, stare boring into the very depths of Reid’s soul. “I have known you for far too long to not know that you are blaming yourself for this.”

They stare at each other for a long time, and Spencer never once breaks eye contact, slowly sipping his coffee before continuing.

“They always leave something with _me_. A book, a badge, a note? It’s _always_ me, every single time, Hotch,” he says, shoving his freehand deep in his pocket and rocking on his feet, “I have a hard time believing I’m not _defective_.”

If Hotch notices the way Reid’s voice cracks, he doesn’t say anything about it.

“You know that’s not true,” there’s an underlying current of command, begging Reid to hear and process his words for once.

“I know,” Reid shrugs complacently, “I guess... I just think it’s funny.”

He says it as if he hasn’t been tearing himself apart since it happened.

“Alright, sit,” Hotch demands, praying to every god that he’s never believed in— he just needs this kid to listen to him for once.

Reid doesn’t fight him, settling down into the chair behind him, slinging his leg lackadaisically over his thigh, holding his ankle with his free hand. It radiates a type of chaotic calm that Hotch has only ever seen at the Doyle trial. Hotch wouldbe lying if he said it didn’t terrify him.

Hotch trying to thumb through Reid’s micro expressions, but there’s this placid cloud that shields the kid, and somehow, it’s not the least bit relaxing.

“I can see you trying to profile me,” Reid sighs, setting his coffee down on the coaster on Hotch’s desk, “I’ll tell you what I really think if you swear it never leaves this room.”

Hotch just nods jerkily.

“People always seem to leave me, and there is never anything I can do about it. something always happens between us right before it too,” Reid runs a hand through his hair, throwing a glare out at the team who watches him from the bullpen.

The quickly pretend to be busy and he rolls his eyes, posture lapsing into a slump as he sinks further in the chair, “She called me, Ethan.”

The air leave the room, and for the first time in years, Hotch is completely out of his element.

“ _What_?” Hotch blurts, dumbly.

“Gideon left because I reminded him of Stephen. I got kidnapped and he left. My dad left because I reminded him of my mom, and she stopped being the person he loved. Maeve left because she was in love with me, and whatever God is up there never seems to want me happy.” He stops, letting out a mirthless chuckle, “Alex left, because it was like watching her son die all over again.”

“Reid, those are all just coincidence—“ Spencer sends him a look, “I’m serious. Do you think Haley and I never truly letting go of one another is the reason she died?”

Spencer falters, and Hotch knows he asked the wrong question. He sighs, running his hands over his face.

“Reid, listen to me _closely_ ,” he says softly, “everyone has their demons, but you are _not_ the reasons for other’s pitfalls and mistakes.”

“It’s just hard to _believe_ that sometimes.”

“I know,” Hotch soothes, voice sincere, “But one day you will realise that not every action has the consequences you think it will. You’re still young, and you’re using the way your own demons plague to as a way to justify ruining others, but that’s just not what’s happening.”

Spencer sucks in a deep breath, rising to his feet and Hotch does the same, coming out from behind his desk.

“Come here,” within an instant, Reid is wrapped in Hotch’s arms.

“This is really _weird_ ,” Reid mutters after a minute, “we’re the least affectionate. This is borderline uncomfortable. They’re going to find out we have emotions.”

Hotch pulls away, offering a fist. “Uh, I believe the kids say ‘ _blow it up’_?”

“You say that as if I have ever acted my age in the first place,” Reid responds simply, fist bumping his boss. “Alright, I’m gonna go before Penelope starts trying to set us up on a date. Thanks, Hotch.”


End file.
